In the blood a thriller, p.33
In the Blood: A Thriller, page 33
part #5 of Terminal List Series
“What?” Nizar whispered.
“I forgive you,” Reece said.
Confused, Nizar looked up in time to see the leading edge of the Sayoc ’hawk slice through the cold mountain air.
No soul may die except with God’s permission at a predestined time…
His final thought was of this Quranic teaching from his youth. The nonbeliever wondering if he was destined for Jannah or Jahannam. Heaven or Hell.
The forward edge of the tomahawk impacted the center of Nizar’s head and split his skull in two. He was dead before the blade came to rest, catching in the meat, sinew, and bone of his throat and spine.
Reece paused for a moment, thinking of Joanie and his words when she had met him on the tarmac at Andrews.
I’ll find who did this, Joanie. I’ll find everyone responsible. I promise.
As Reece picked up his foot, placed it on Nizar’s chest, and violently twisted the ’hawk to remove it from the bone and brain matter that held it fast, he heard Joanie’s response echo through his soul.
I know, she had said.
Reece wiped the blade on Nizar’s body and sheathed it.
It was done.
The man who ensured that Freddy would never walk through the door to hold his wife and kids again, who left his widow to care for their special needs child, was dead.
First dig two graves…
Reece took the Vintorez from the driver’s seat, rocked the magazine out, and pressed down on the top round before reinserting it and performing a press check. He then walked to the dead body by the tree, took the AK, checked its status, removed the magazine, and put it in his pocket. He ejected the round from the chamber and pushed it into the magazine before flinging the weapon into the forest. Returning to the vehicle, he dragged Nizar’s body into the tree line.
Only then did he look to the hillside hide site five hundred yards away and start his hike to where he had placed the man in the wheelchair with the Mosin-Nagant rifle four days earlier.
CHAPTER 84
Gorky Park, Moscow, Russia
MIKHAIL GROMYKO KEPT THE Moskva River on his right as he worked his way deeper into Gorky Park, hands in his pockets to ward off the chill. The cold had not used to bother him this much. Maybe it was his aging bones?
Maybe it’s the cancer.
The director of the SVR shook off thoughts of his mortality and turned up his collar. He had crossed the river from which the city took its name over the Pushkinsky Pedestrian Bridge, using its open-air walkway, noting that the water that flowed through Moscow would eventually connect to the Volga and make its way to the Caspian Sea. He had been getting his exercise while practicing the tradecraft of his youth. The discipline to always plan and utilize surveillance detection routes was his responsibility as a professional. Never failing himself or a foreign asset by getting lazy is what had kept him alive.
Perhaps Dashkov was right; maybe it was time for him to get a protection detail, enjoy the time he had left. The doctor was confident that he had years to live with the proper treatments. Receiving them in Moscow in secret was another matter. It might be time to leave the Russian capital for Switzerland and get his treatments on the shores of Lake Zurich. But he couldn’t leave Moscow, could he? He had devoted his life to Mother Russia. Or had he devoted that life to power? Ah, Kissinger, he was right. Power is the ultimate aphrodisiac. Would he even be allowed to leave? He still had secrets locked away in his head, secrets that would make some, including Dashkov and the president, nervous.
Gromyko peered across the path to a large amphitheater. Empty tonight. His oval lenses had slid down the bridge of his nose and he adjusted his glasses for what seemed like the hundredth time that evening. He would have to get a new set that would stay on his ever-thinning face.
The park had another thirty minutes until it shut down for the night. The old spy knew its paths by heart. Nothing appeared out of place. Even though it had been cleaned up and modernized in recent years, with the prostitutes, carnival rides, decrepit structures, and drug dealers replaced by skateboarders, cafés, playgrounds, and museums, there remained dark corners where one could meet in private. The hunting lodge of Count Orlov, Trinity Church, and the Belaya Ladya chess club still graced its grounds but so did trendy restaurants, a movie theater, and an ice rink. He did miss the days before the Internet and algorithms, days when a clever intellect and gut instinct were what separated the great from the good, and oftentimes the great from the dead.
They had not heard back from Nizar Kattan. That was not entirely unusual or unexpected. The sniper had a reputation for strict adherence to operational security protocols, but Gromyko had expected to hear from the Frenchman. They had both gone dark. James Reece had not appeared on any facial recognition databases monitored by the Internet Research Agency, which was constantly scanning airports, train stations, and ports and traffic and security cameras. Reece’s phone had been active in Ulcinj for a few days after his arrival. Geolocational tracking data collected by the Federal Protective Service’s Special Communications and Information Service, better known as Spetssviaz, indicated that Reece had stayed at the Hotel Palata Venezia for four days before driving north. He sent a text message to Victor Rodriguez at the CIA from just outside the village of Provalija, at which point the signal had gone dark. Kattan and Le Drian were already in position, waiting for their prey to enter the kill zone. Spetssviaz was tasked with the collection and analysis of foreign communications and signals intelligence. It had once fallen under Dashkov’s Federal Security Service, the FSB, and though it was now the purview of the FSO, the Federal Protective Service, the FSB director still maintained official and unofficial ties to what was the Russian version of the NSA.
Gromyko veered off the Pushkinskaya Embankment and took a trail into the heart of Gorky Park. There were sections that made one forget for a moment that they were in the middle of one of the largest and most populous cities on earth.
Dashkov had requested the meeting. He had beaten Gromyko to it. An in-person meeting away from the prying ears and ears of their offices was in order. There may have been a development through the long electronic reach of Spetssviaz. Was Reece alive or dead? If the SEAL had escaped Nizar’s ambush in Montenegro, they would need to take more drastic measures, measures upon which Dashkov and the president would need to concur.
Gromyko passed a semiclothed statue of a ballerina and took a seat on a bench. Andreyevsky Pond was visible through the trees. A light breeze cut the stillness of the night.
No sign of Dashkov or his goons.
Dashkov, always with the games.
Apparently, this time he had decided to make his old friend wait in the cold.
No matter. Spying was a game of patience; patience, trust, and creative problem solving.
Dashkov must have information that would shed light on what had happened in Montenegro. That information would dictate their next move.
Dashkov, where are you?
The SVR director reached into the pocket of his dark wool jacket and removed his pack of Marlboros and a plastic lighter.
This should warm these old bones.
In a long-practiced motion taught to him by his KGB instructors not far outside of Moscow, he tapped the pack and removed a cigarette, returning the pack to his pocket and striking the lighter with his thumb. The warm smoke filled his lungs as the nicotine was quickly absorbed by his blood and went to work stimulating neuron receptors and releasing the dopamine that activated the reward circuits in his brain.
As the dopamine and endorphins hit, the spymaster leaned back on the bench. Gromyko was so absorbed in thought that he was not aware death had come for him until the long, plastic zip-tie was already over his head and around his neck.
He heard the clicks of the teeth and shank engaging in the plastic head as the cable was pulled tight against his windpipe.
He dropped his cigarette, and his hands went to his throat, clawing at the thick plastic band that stopped just short of cutting off the supply of oxygen and blood to his brain.
There is nothing quite so terrifying as suffocation. Even more terrifying is when that suffocation appears in the form of a ghost out of the night.
Gromyko tried to twist away but a powerful arm pushed him down and anchored his thin frame to the bench.
“Relax.”
English.
“Relax or I will pull back, the zip-tie will cut off blood and oxygen to your brain, and you will die.”
American English. James Reece.
The SVR director stopped struggling and forced himself to take short breaths, barely enough oxygen making its way to his brain to keep him alive.
The hand that anchored him to the bench left his shoulder and pointed down the trail. Gromyko caught it in his peripheral, then shifted his eyes before slightly canting his head.
Movement?
What is that?
Between short gasps he watched as a wheelchair emerged from the darkness.
Gromyko watched in horror as the man he had put in the chair wheeled up to him, trapping the Russian’s legs between the right wheel and the bench.
The American’s hand returned to his shoulder, his other still grasping the cable of the zip-tie. One more pull and the plastic tie would cut all oxygen and blood from Gromyko’s brain.
“I’ve wanted to look you in the eye for thirty-five years, comrade.”
Unable to speak, the Russian could only stare at Abelard.
“I see the fear in your eyes, old man. Did you mean to kill me all those years ago?”
Gromyko nodded, his eyes darting about, searching.
“Tonight, I return the favor. Though I am going to succeed where you failed.”
Maybe Dashkov’s security men will round the corner at any moment? Maybe there is still hope?
“What are you searching for, Comrade Gromyko? For your friend Dashkov? Did you think you were meeting him here? No. That was us. We set up this meeting.”
Confusion flashed across the SVR man’s face.
What? How?
“Your Spetssviaz and your Internet Research Agency are easily fooled. Just as in the Cold War, the Americans have outplayed you. No one is coming.”
Gromyko’s hand went back to the plastic at his throat.
“It’s futile, Mikhail. Use these precious seconds you have left wisely. Are you wondering what happened to Oleg Berzin?”
How do they know so much?
“No need to worry. You will see him soon. He no longer draws breath, but he told us something interesting before he died. He needed a favor, so in exchange he told me who put me here,” Abelard said, gesturing to the wheelchair. “Which leads us to the question at hand: Why do you want James Reece dead?”
Reece’s left hand twisted the plastic tie just enough to let a little more air pass through, allowing Gromyko to answer the question.
“I don’t,” the Russian managed to rasp out.
“It’s no use lying, comrade. We know you have been trying to kill the man behind you for quite some time. I must say you have not done a particularly good job, as you can tell from your current predicament.”
Think, Mikhail.
“Now, why do you want him dead?”
Gromyko thought of all the men he had seen die, all those he had ordered to their deaths. He thought of his training, his assignments, his ascension to the top of the Russian intelligence hierarchy. He thought of the long-term agents inserted deep into the heart of the West, the ones who had families, who had ushered in a second generation of deep-penetration assets. Behind enemy lines. Infiltrating an entire society. Poisoning it from within. He thought of the multigenerational plan to destroy the United States. And he thought of the man who had almost stopped it: Thomas Reece.
There was nothing these two men could do.
“Because of the list,” he whispered.
“The list?” Abelard asked. “Explain.”
Abelard lifted his eyes to look at Reece, who gave an almost imperceptible nod.
“Ask him,” Gromyko said.
Abelard looked back to the big man.
“This is about the letter?” Reece asked.
“Not a letter. A list.”
“What’s on it?” Reece asked.
Gromyko shook his head.
“Air,” the old man said.
“No,” Reece said. “You have enough to speak. Where’s the list?”
“Smoke?”
“What?” Reece asked.
“Cigarette?”
Reece looked at Abelard, who nodded.
Keeping a hand on the back of the zip-tie, Reece reached down from behind the bench into the Russian’s coat pocket. He fished out a pack of cigarettes and small lighter. He handed them to the old spy.
Gromyko slowly tapped the pack against his shaking palm as he had done thousands of times over the preceding decades, but this time, just as he had been taught by his KGB instructors, he maneuvered a special cigarette into the rotation and pulled it out with cold, shaky fingers. He remembered his KGB cadre briefing his class on potassium cyanide. It had been exciting back in 1983. It was not so exciting now. As he pulled the Marlboro from the pack, he felt the filter to ensure it was the correct one. It was.
“The list,” Reece said, getting impatient.
“The list,” Gromyko repeated. “Your father made it. He didn’t tell you where it was?”
Reece stood silent at the mention of Thomas Reece.
“No answer? I see he did not. At least I can go to my grave knowing those secrets died with him.”
The Russian slowly inserted the cigarette between his lips, then shoved it into the back of his mouth and bit down.
The “L-pill” embedded in the cigarette’s filter broke apart before Abelard or Reece could stop it.
Reece let go of the zip-tie and pulled Gromyko’s head back, trying to force his fingers into the man’s mouth to dislodge the pill. The spy clamped his jaw shut and twisted his head back and forth in an effort to defend against the SEAL’s attack.
“How much time do we have?” Reece asked, looking at Abelard.
“Probably cyanide. Not long. Minutes. It’s over, James,” Abelard said. “Let him die.”
Reece looked into the eyes of the man who held the secrets. They were already glazing over as the old man struggled to breathe, the cyanide blocking his frail body’s ability to perform basic functions, the muscles of his diaphragm and heart losing their ability to circulate oxygen and blood. What his instructors outside of Moscow had failed to mention was that death by potassium cyanide poisoning is one of the most painful ways to leave the earth.
As the old spy thrashed about in agony, Reece eyed the man in the wheelchair, who looked on without a hint of remorse. Reece reached back to the zip-tie, placed his hand at the head where the band passed though the claws, and gave a powerful tug, tightening the garotte and putting the old man out of his misery.
Reece glanced at the stainless-steel watch on his wrist. The park would be closing soon.
He then looked into the upturned eyes of the Russian spymaster.
What secrets did you take to the grave?
Reece then hauled the smaller man over the back of the bench and carried him across a patch of grass and into the wood line.
As the cerebral hypoxia shut down Mikhail Gromyko’s brain, he had the vague sensation of floating. He realized he was being carried. His last thought before he drifted away was that James Reece looked a lot like his father.
Reece threw the dead man unceremoniously into the shrubbery of the park that Gromyko had known so well, then returned to the man in the wheelchair.
Reece walked next to him back toward one of the main paths that paralleled the Moscow River.
“Facial recognition, identification, that should all be good. The technology department at the Agency will take care of it,” Reece said, knowing full well that it wasn’t the CIA or NSA, but an entity trapped in a maze of golden wires beneath Lackland Air Force Base. “Once we get home, I can’t say. We are in uncharted territory.”
“I’ll take it from there,” Abelard said.
“What are you going to do?” Reece asked.
“I’ll do what I always do,” he said, gesturing to the wheelchair. “I’ll adapt. But this time, I might adapt back home.”
“Home?”
“Israel.”
Reece smiled.
“And you?” Abelard asked. “What will you do?”
Reece paused. They had reached a fork in the trail.
“I’m going to do the same.”
To Abelard’s questioning look Reece offered, “I’m going to adapt.”
“Good-bye, Reece,” Abelard said, reaching up to shake the SEAL’s hand before pushing off into the night.
“Good-bye,” Reece whispered after the bookseller had disappeared.
He stood there a moment longer, allowing himself a brief moment to reflect.
What of the list and his father’s connection to Russian intelligence? Some things were best left to die in darkness.
He thought of Katie and the mountains of Montana. It was time to go home.
Their routes out of Moscow were cleared, their faces and identities electronically altered. No facial recognition technology would identify them at any point along their journey; their passport aliases would be approved as valid. They were clean.
As Reece worked his way to the park exit, he looked up at a statue of a partially clad woman. She appeared to be dancing. He thought of the new woman in his life. The woman who had made the assassination of the director of Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service possible. A woman named Alice.
EPILOGUE
Upon this, one has to remark that men ought either to be well treated or crushed, because they can avenge themselves of lighter injuries, of more serious ones they cannot; therefore the injury that is to be done to a man ought to be of such a kind that one does not stand in fear of revenge.
—Niccolò Machiavelli, The Prince
Kumba Ranch, Flathead Valley, Montana
Reece ran his fingers around the ring in the pocket of his jeans for around the thousandth time that evening.
